


Giving Up the Gun

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Great Sexpectations, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Past Abuse, Past James "Bucky" Barnes/Alexander Pierce - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Post-CA:TWS, the Asset (current code name: Bucky Barnes) expects the Avengers to use it the way Hydra did.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5108959#cmt5108959) on the hydratrashmeme. Tags will be updated as the story progresses.

They put it in a cell for a while, which it didn't hold against them. It wasn't a danger to its handlers, and under normal circumstances it would have been insulted, but the Avengers were still getting to know it and couldn't be expected to trust it, not when they were barely acquainted. They didn't beat it or starve it or say cruel things to it, which tended to confirm its suspicions about the sort of people Steve (!) was likely to befriend, and it showed them the perfect courtesy it would demonstrate toward any new handlers, to put them at ease. When they didn't like that— _ah, shit, no, please get up, you don't have to_ , accompanied by the awkward gestures and pained facial expressions of social discomfort—it recalibrated, and showed them the easy respect of long familiarity. _You're doing great_ , they told it then, and it was pleased in response to their pleasure, as was natural, but underneath its satisfaction was the ache of regret. They'd found it bleeding and broken on the riverbank, and brought it home, which made it theirs by right of salvage. They were fighters, and it was an engine of war: once they were confident of it, they would put it to use. The exhaustion and horror it felt at this prospect was no more than the exhaustion and horror it had felt down all the bloody years since it was carved from the living corpse of a man named (it now knew) Bucky Barnes. Its early trainers had exerted themselves to render it effective, efficient, and pleasant to work with, and it could hardly disappoint them by intimating to its new owners that their looted weapon was tired of killing. The Avengers had not yet found occasion to correct it, and while the need would doubtless arise as it learned to suit itself to new preferences, it was disinclined to hasten any education in the means and methods of their disapproval. Thus, it met the news of its agreeable performance with a quiet _good to hear_ , and when the one it rather hoped they'd pick to reward it when it executed its missions with special brilliance said that there was no reason not to go on and let it out, it smiled in the way that sometimes made him smile back at it and said, _ready when you are_. 

When they transferred it, Steve (!) brought the scary one along for backup. That was sensible: individually, it might best either one of them, but together they could take it down. It kept its hands loose at its sides, its face politely attentive as they pointed out the interior geography of the Tower. When they reached its assigned quarters, it froze on the doorstep. _We'll put you in a room just like this._ "Problem?" the scary one asked. It shook its head, and forced itself across the threshold with a murmured apology on feet gone abruptly numb. There followed an explanation of schedules and services, an introduction to the AI in the ceiling, an invitation to join the team at their next appointed mealtime, all of which it noted and answered as appropriate while its heart pounded in its ears. When they left it alone, it removed the soft civilian clothes from the dresser and closet to examine them, and carefully put them back. It stroked the white towels in the bathroom, the long robe of the same material hung from a hook in the door. It turned the water on and off in the glass shower, and uncapped the little bottles arrayed by the side of the claw-foot tub to sniff their contents. Then it sat down on the edge of the bed, in the room that was mostly a bed, and buried its head in its hands.

Alex hadn't said it every time. It was enough, more than enough, to be rewarded at all, to be touched and pleasured and allowed to give pleasure, rocking deep and slow into Alex's familiar body or savoring the press of his cock inside it, driving it toward orgasm and reminding it of how good it had been, how well it had done. Sometimes, though, when Alex was feeling sweet, he'd tell it about _one day_ , tell it while he ran his beautiful hands over its scarred flesh until it closed its eyes and shivered with longing. _You were made for this_ , Alex would say, _and one day it's all you'll be good for. You've been fighting a long time, and there's a long war still to come. But wars end. One day, we won't need you anymore._ How it had loved his gentle fingers in its hair. _You know what happens to things people don't need? To tools, when they wear out?_ It would nod, then, knowing the story well but feeling a delicious twinge of fear all the same. _That's right. But not you. Where you're concerned, we might be a little bit sentimental._ Relief, every time. And in its wake, contentment. _We'll take away your guns, your knives and armor: everything that makes you what you are. Except this._ A playful caress of its spent cock, the curve of its ass. _And then we'll put you in a room just like this one, where we can use you whenever we please. You'd like that, wouldn't you?_ Quiet laughter at its fervent nod. _Yeah, you would._ A hand under its chin, tipping its face up for a kiss. _You will._

Slowly, it let itself sink back into the multitude of pillows. Alex hadn't been the one to reward it in years, and now he was dead, and it wasn't even Hydra's to dispose of anymore. Was it possible—did it dare to think—that he had managed to keep his promise? Or that the Avengers had somehow arrived independently at a similar conclusion regarding its utility? The enormity of the idea pressed down on it like a fist, until finally, with a strangled breath suspiciously like a sob, it rolled over, burrowing into the marvelous softness of the bed. It couldn't be. Whatever this was, whatever happened to it now, surely it hadn't lived to see _one day_ come round at last. 

Or had it? Against its better judgment and bitter experience, it felt hope stir. How else to explain this room that was mostly a bed, so like the opulent suite where Alex and the others after him had rewarded it? How else to explain the civilian t-shirts and jeans, the absence of tac gear? The gargantuan tub, comically disproportionate to its hygienic needs but perfect to soak in while it leaned back against a handler's chest, enjoying a hand curled teasingly around its cock, another brushing lightly, maddeningly over the peaked buds of its nipples? The one with the nice smile, maybe, or the very large happy one, or even— Somewhat ridiculously, it felt, under the circumstances, it was beginning to get hard. A conditioned response to the luxurious setting, perhaps, but hardly an appropriate one, not when it had yet to earn a reward. Unless there were no more rewards, because there was no more work to be done. Unless _one day_ had arrived after all, and this was what it was _for_ now, here in its big clean bed, its body primed for the giving and taking of pleasure. Where its new owners could use it whenever they pleased. All right: not helpful. With an effort of will, it redirected its thoughts. 

Steve (!) had been kind to it, in the cell. It struggled to speak to him, though; could barely think of him without that dislocating jolt, like touching a live wire. The one with the nice smile, the one it had hoped might be chosen to reward it, if it was good enough—he was kind as well. He wouldn't strike it or even laugh at it for a legitimate question about its status and intended function, not when protocol and indeed common sense dictated that it seek clarification. It would ask him. 

It remembered the schedule and the invitation. Almost time, then. It stripped to the skin, ignoring its half-hard cock, and washed itself with care, relishing the faint roughness of the shower's rose-and-grey tile against its calloused feet. It smiled as it pulled on the soft new clothes that would do nothing to protect it from cold or damp or the slash of an enemy's knife, that hid no clever pockets for weaponry of its own. Clothes that would be nice to touch, if anyone were so inclined, and simple to remove. It checked its appearance in the mirror, and shrugged: it looked the same as always, and Alex had sometimes called it beautiful. 

Unwise and irrepressible, hope lightened its step as it headed down to dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

The meal had its awkward moments. It waited too long to serve itself from the generous bowls and platters, unused to sharing food with its handlers and unwilling to presume. It was adapting well, it felt, to the plainspoken deference the Avengers required, but while they might scold it for ceremony they would no doubt whip it for disrespect. Smart, perhaps, to learn where that line lay sooner rather than later, but no one had ever accused it of being smart. It didn't want them to hurt it. When the others had filled their own plates without allotting it a ration, it got with the program and helped itself. A risk, of course, but everything was.

They talked past it, for the most part, which it was used to and appreciated. Steve (!) argued with the one that was part robot, same as it, but there was no heat behind the words, only fond exasperation and the comfort of routine. The scary one flirted with the gentle one, who didn't notice. The very large happy one mentioned _possible Hydra activity_ and received an assortment of quelling looks. There: its own presence, distorting the conversation. That the Avengers didn't like Hydra and didn't like that it had belonged to Hydra had been clear from the outset, an attitude evidenced most ostentatiously when they forced it to respond to a dead man's name, as if the years of torment that had fashioned it from that poor creature could be erased for lack of acknowledgement. It wasn't offended, although it revised accordingly its opinion of their collective intelligence. They owned it now, and were free to call it what they liked, free to deny it the refuge of propriety as it adjusted to its new environment, but the facts remained. What had been done to it could not be undone.

It ate slowly, watching its handlers for cues, and they didn't take its food away, by which it judged itself relatively free from error. Always grateful to be fed, in accordance with an early lesson, it was glad also of the chance to simply listen and observe. The faster it refined its sense of them, as individuals and as a team, the further it reduced the risk of unfortunate surprise. If it displeased them, of course, they would teach it not to do so again, but if it could anticipate their requirements and save itself the pain of correction, so much the better. They frightened it, as well they should, because it was an incomplete machine with soft parts still that they could bruise and break and burn, but fear could not be allowed to render it witless. 

They frightened it, as well they should, because they could make it kill for them. 

If they did that, it would feed their names to the furnace of its hate. Even Steve, even the one they picked to reward it, whose touch it would crave with the sick affection of a beaten dog: it would loathe them all, as it loathed every master that had ever used it to take a life. And if they _didn't?_ If its purpose lay elsewhere now, as Alex had promised? Careful, careful. No use to imagine until it knew for sure. No use to let the dream take hold.

After dinner, the one with the nice smile removed himself along with the scary one and the watchful one who was her friend to a spacious lounge, where he found a seat at the bar that ran along one wall while they curled together on a plush white sofa too small to hold them both. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the opposite wall, the skyline glittered. It approached slowly, ready for him to wave it off, but when it touched the seat next to him in silent question he gave it a companionable nod. 

"Hey, Buck. How're you doing?"

 _This Asset is functioning normally, sir._ "Good, thanks. Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all."

It settled onto the padded stool beside him, watched as he tipped back, drained and refilled a heavy crystal tumbler. _Request permission for query regarding mission-relevant data._ "Would it be all right if I—asked you a question?"

"Of course."

 _Has this Asset outlived its usefulness?_ It drew a steadying breath, and let it out. "Am I—retired?" He raised his eyebrows at it, waiting for elaboration, and it stumbled on. "I haven't been issued weapons or equipment. My quarters are—very different, from where I was kept before. Should I expect—" It groped for the mimicry they liked, the echo of their own straightforward speech. "Will I be sent on missions, for the Avengers?"

Another long swallow, before he answered. "Do you want to go on missions with the Avengers?"

It froze, not daring to look at him. His tone was free of ridicule or threat, but the question mocked and warned. It thought of Alex's taunt: _want some milk?_ It was made to receive instructions, and obey. It did not _want_. "This Asset accepts correction." No, that was wrong. Carefully, it bowed its head. "I mean, I apologize."

He sighed. "You're not in trouble." The other two had fallen silent. "Still with me?"

"Yes, s—Sam." 

"Guess you don't have a whole lot of practice with want or not want. Right?" It nodded obediently, though the implications of the phrasing were difficult to parse. "Well, you'll work on that. With the very qualified, very _expensive_ therapist Tony's going to hire for you, now you're out of that fucking cell. In the meantime—no. No missions. That's a decision we can revisit as a group, down the line, but for now let's say we give retirement a try. See how it goes."

It felt a rush of dizziness, and braced its metal hand against the edge of the bar to steady itself. _No missions._ No weapons, no killing. Wonderfully, impossibly, it was here at last, adrift beyond the last page of its own story, done with the life it had known. _One day, we won't need you anymore._ It would live in this splendid tower, in its sumptuous room that was mostly a bed, and its handlers would use its body for pleasure. Reward without end, reward that _wasn't_ , because there was no more favor to be earned. 

_That's a decision we can revisit._ A chilly note, a word of warning to temper its astonishment and growing delight. Their clemency was provisional. They would _see how it goes_ , and if it failed to please them, its new status could be revoked. _No._ It would not allow that to happen. It would do anything, be anything they wanted. It would answer to _Bucky_ , it would speak and act as they preferred, it would learn each one of them by heart. It would be so good.

"Thank you," it said, and lifted its face to smile, inviting him to smile back. "Thank you, Sam. I understand. I'll—do my best." He raised his glass in its direction, a small salute. Bold with happiness, remembering the initiative expected of it at dinner, it poured itself a measure of the same fine whiskey. And there it was: a smile that seemed to warm it from the inside, sweet as the first sip going down.


End file.
